


The Big Warm Dark

by decalexas (haelstorm)



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Sharing a Bed, and gideon thinks about the trauma of having a body. i cannot be more clear., they sit in a bed and do nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 02:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21330928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haelstorm/pseuds/decalexas
Summary: Gideon Nav knows how to swing a longsword, brandish a rapier, bridge the gap between life and death, punch the dead in the face, and maybe overthrow an Empire along the way.What she doesn't know how to do is reach for the girl who made all of this possible.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 27
Kudos: 397





	The Big Warm Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Bedsharing fic, set nebulously post series. Very loosely plays with the idea that at the end of all of this, the Emperor's reign is going to come crashing down around him. And that our favorite lesbian is un-deadified. 
> 
> aka
> 
> TFW you traverse space and the realms of undeath to get your girl, but you still can’t bring yourself to share a bed with her. 
> 
> Thank you Rhiannon for beta reading. I know you really wanted to just go to sleep.

Gideon the Ninth, cavalier extraordinaire, Matthias Nonius come again, first flower of her house, first Risen of the _Second _Resurrection, is as calm as she has ever been in her entire life. It’s just her body that is frightened. 

Which is a  _ major  _ boner killer. And worse, a major  _ sleep  _ killer. 

If someone had asked, she would say it was understandable. Fair, even. She would tell that someone, with their self satisfied little smirk, that  _ maybe  _ after traversing the realms of life and death, watching the entire known religion and political infrastructure of the universe crumble around her, and returning to a body she had long since said farewell to— just  _ maybe  _ it was fair that she had a minor physical breakdown.

Gideon Nav had spent hours dreaming, planning, scheming, and fantasizing about what she would do with the opportunity to get into a girl’s bed. Sure, the buxom babe in these fantasies was never Harrowhark Nonagesimus, but Gideon liked to think herself adaptable. And anyway, her innate sexual prowess — something she had not, so far, had the opportunity to test, but knew in her heart of hearts (and horniest of hormones) existed — was something she had trusted to carry her through any such situation, whether that be ceremoniously laying out some Third House debutante out on her jewel studded bed, or crouching over some hot, sweaty Cohort recruit in an army bunk. 

None of these situations involved Gideon laying in the dark, shaking like a proverbial leaf in the nonexistent wind of the Mithraeum, with three feet of distance between her and the other warm body occupying the bed. They  _ did  _ involve an hour and a half of sleeplessness (or two hours, or six) but for far sexier reasons than now. 

This isn’t the first time Gideon has shared a bed with Nonagesimus. They had, she has some vague recollection, collapsed onto a semi bed-shaped surface yesterday, the exhaustion of Harrow’s necromantic exertions and Gideon’s resurrection and the entire bag of ass that had come with all of  _ that _ catching up with them after what felt like years of battling and legions of skeletons. And before that— a lifetime ago, a deathtime ago, a thousand years ago, they had lain together in Canaan House. Not quite sharing the same bed, but closer and more unguarded than they ever had been before, perpendicular to one another, hesitant and fumbling in their newfound trust in the silent dark. 

And yet despite the entire two times Gideon has spent vaguely horizontal and most definitely asleep with Harrowhark, Gideon is shaking. 

Gideon Nav is afraid— of Harrowhark. 

Well. That’s not true.  _ Gideon Nav  _ has never been afraid of Harrowhark a day in her goddamn life. Or if she has, it’s never won out over her sheer defiant nature. And  _ Gideon Nav _ isn’t afraid of the tense, tight knot of bones squeezed in the corner of the bed, on the other side of the galaxy of sheets between them. But Gideon Nav’s  _ body _ is yelling at her, cursing her; asking her  _ what, young lady, exactly do you think you are  _ doing?  _ What sick revenant has  _ possessed  _ you, what madness has  _ controlled _ you, what horrific brain damage have you _ sustained, _ to put yourself willingly— willingly! — in a position of such vulnerability in front of Harrowhark Nonagesimus?  _

Because while her  _ head,  _ or maybe (barf) her heart, or hell even her  _ soul  _ may trust Harrowhark,  _ her body remembers. _ (If she wasn’t so angry, she’d be impressed about it, impressed that after a good time separated and very, very dead, her body has managed to keep her finely honed instincts intact). Her body remembers the kicks to the head, the scratches to the face, the feeling of being dragged below a pile of skeletal hands. Maybe this is some belated sense of self preservation, her body telling her that since she managed to wriggle out of the claws of death once, she could at least have the decency to stick around for a while. Whatever it is, her body is flashing  _ hotcoldhot _ , muscles tensed as if for another fight. When she tries to calm herself down, she finds her shoulders shaking. 

The scrunchy little ball that is Harrow shifts in the bed, and Gideon flinches at the sounds of the sheets rustling. 

“Griddle?”

Gideon says nothing, trying to beat her heart back down to her chest from her throat. She’s lying on her back, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling. It’s beautiful; Gideon would’ve expected some simple metal welding, or maybe the sleek perfect lines of other ancient-style technology. Instead, the ceiling is carved delicately with sweeping, swirling designs. These are peppered with subtle lights, currently dimmed so that they’re almost lightless. Yup, she is  _ super _ interested in this ceiling. And then a whisper of a sound as Harrow turns her head, and Gideon’s brought back to her body (her  _ body,  _ holy shit). 

Her shoulders are tight with tension, and she realizes that her hands are balled up in painful fists. She forces herself to relax. Her hands uncurl — that’s a win — but her shoulders remain almost painful in their tightness. 

It’s silent for a while, long enough that Gideon thinks Harrow may have fallen asleep, when she hears another, softer rustle.

“....Gideon?” Harrow asks, in a voice that is— for Harrowhark— downright gentle. 

Gideon works her throat and tries to find her voice. 

“Mmmmph?” 

More rustling. This bed is  _ loud _ . Maybe Harrow should get something done about that. Can’t she tell how loud it is, each tiny movement disproportionately thundering in the room? How does she expect Gideon to sleep  _ anyway _ , when each shift of Harrow’s body is ricocheting in her ears and sending shocks straight down her spine? 

Gideon sneaks a glance out of the corner of her eye.

Harrow is closer now, but only barely. She’s lying on her side, knees pulled up tight, bony little hands tucked under her cheek. Her irises are dark against the white of her sclera. The inner corner of her left eye is red. Gideon remembers Harrow’s look of utter focus when the capillaries had begun to burst during that final fight, blood blooming beneath the conjunctiva. Those eyes are trained on Gideon. Gideon struggles to read her expression— whether because it’s dark or simply because  _ Harrow,  _ she can’t quite work out. 

“Are you. Not.... comfortable?” Harrow asks stiffly. 

Gideon gives a slight jerk of her head, and then wets her lips. “‘’m fine,” she croaks. Her eyes are trained firmly on the ceiling again. It is still so  _ swirly.  _

“You’re…..  _ fine.”  _ She can hear the scowl in Harrowhark’s voice. 

“Mmmhm. Just peachy.” Gideon thinks she would like to try a peach, one day. 

“Peachy,” Harrow intones. She twitches the covers of the blankets back slightly, so that Gideon’s supremely well-formed but traitorously shaking shoulder is revealed. “Griddle, you most certainly are not  _ peachy _ . You’re shaking.” Silence, and then in a softer tone, “Would you… like to sleep somewhere else?” 

When Gideon shakes her head, Harrow says uncomfortably, haltingly, “Would you— like  _ me _ — to go elsewhere?” And Gideon knows that Harrow knows, because Harrow has always possessed a keen ability to ferret out whatever it is that Gideon is most sensitive about. 

Gideon’s ears burn. It’s somehow humiliating to hear the pity and the self-conscious attempt at gentleness in Harrow’s words. Harrow is trying— like, genuinely  _ trying _ , she can tell, each word dredged up from the bottom of her black little heart and offered to Gideon. Harrow is not and has never been particularly altruistic. Hasn’t been altruistic at all, actually. If she had been, Gideon probably wouldn’t be in this deeply uncomfortable conundrum. It’s not like Harrow to let something she wants slip through her fingers, as evidenced by Gideon’s  _ eighty-seven failed escape plans,  _ and the countless bumps, bruises, and occasional breaks that had accompanied those plans. And that’s not even saying anything about Gideon’s achey-breaky _ heart  _ with each failed attempt. 

If there’s one thing Gideon knows by now, after a few days on this ridiculous space station with only Harrow for company, it’s that Harrow  _ wants  _ her. Wants her enough to drag her back from beyond the grips of death, and  _ that’s  _ a dizzyingly weird thought for Gideon, who’s never been  _ wanted  _ a day in her entire goddamn life. She can’t even bring herself to make a dirty joke about it. It’s  _ bad. _

She’s seen it lurking in Harrow’s eyes, between those busted blood vessels and blazing in her black irises. Hot and heady and tinged with awe, even when she’s rolling her eyes at some dumb Gideon-ism. She can see it in the broken off, abortive movements Harrow makes whenever they hear an odd noise in this huge, creepy space station — as if she, absurdly, is going to fling her bird-boned body in front of Gideon’s much bigger one. As if she thinks Gideon is someone who needs to be  _ protected, _ which would be funny if it didn’t have Gideon squarely freaking the fuck out. She remembers Harrow like this on that last terrible day at Canaan House.

She realizes that Harrowhark has been watching her, waiting for a reply. 

“This is  _ your  _ bed,” she says dumbly, and Harrow’s frown deepens.

“You— are being ridiculous,” Harrow grits out. “You are very clearly… uncomfortable. You don’t want to go somewhere else. You don’t want  _ me _ to go somewhere. Either you’re lying about one of those, or you intend to spend the rest of the night sitting in this awful bed staring at one another.” 

Now they’re  _ both  _ getting frustrated. Great. Perfect. Actually, in a way, it kind of is — she doesn’t know how to handle this weird, gentle-ish side of Harrow, but  _ arguing  _ with Harrow is second nature to her. It’s like breathing. Actually, it’s almost more familiar than breathing after what feels like a myriad  _ not  _ breathing (and isn’t  _ that weird,  _ adjusting to all the weird little quirks of having a body, like  _ breathing  _ and  _ feeling things  _ like the sweet smoothness of the sheets, and hearing the constant hum of the , and  _ blinking  _ and don’t even get her started on  _ eating  _ —)

Distantly, Gideon thinks she might be having a panic attack. She shoots upright in the bed and balls her hands up in her hair . (She has  _ hair.  _ And  _ hands.  _ Who would have thought?) It only sort of helps. She focuses on the scratch of her hair (is it longer now than it was when she— died? The same? Does hair grow when you’re dead, or is that just a myth? ) against her palms, the tug at her roots. She can’t see Harrow out of the corner of her eyes when she’s sitting like this. Good. That’s good. 

“I don’t know how to fucking  _ do this, _ ” she manages to grit out. She doesn’t know why she feels so acutely humiliated. She’s Gideon the fucking Ninth! She’s died for her house, allowed her necromancer to ascend to Lyctorhood, walked through the River and back, seen the end of the Empire as she knows it, and punched more skeletons in the face than she can count. “I don’t know how to— lay in bed next to you and sleep have that just be  _ okay.  _ Have that be  _ normal.  _ Hell, I barely remember how to  _ sleep.” _ You don’t  _ sleep _ when you’re just a soul. Or maybe you do; maybe that’s all you do. Or maybe you spend your time crumpled up in metaphysical fetal position somewhere in the back of Harrowhark’s angry little skull and pretend that that’s  _ like  _ sleep until it’s time to come back out and do your cav thing.

Gideon Nav doesn’t want to die again. 

Don’t get her wrong— she’d sacrificed herself knowing full well what she was doing. Well. She’d sacrificed herself knowing semi-well what she was maybe possibly sort of doing. Ish. But it had felt right. She’d needed to get herself and Harrow out, needed to do it for both of them and for— barf— the _Ninth. _It’s not that she regrets it. It’s just that she remembers how it felt, and it _hurt. _Hurt to feel herself— separated from herself. Losing all the familiar pathways of her body, her connection to the outside world as her nervous system shut down around her. And then— she was Gone. 

“Then don’t sleep,” Harrow says tersely. At the glare Gideon shoots her, the glare that says  _ Gee, Harrow, that’s really fucking considerate of you _ , she barrels on, “I mean you— you need to. You  _ should  _ sleep. I want—  _ want  _ you to sleep. But if it’s _ too much _ then… don’t.” 

Gideon hears a small clicking sound coming from across the room and her head whips up, hand shooting out to her where her longsword rests against the side of the bed. It takes her a second to realize that it’s Harrow’s jewelry, that Harrow is sitting upright and is teasing bits of bone out through the many holes in her ears, unclasping the collar and bracelets of knucklebones she always wears and tossing them across the room. She hesitates for a moment, and then she’s pulling her outer shirt over her head and wiggling out of her pants, and tossing them across the room and into the darkness, and Gideon is choking on about eight layers of confusion and a ninth layer of questionable intrigue. 

Unfortunately, Harrow notices the look on her face. 

“Oh, don’t be so  _ perverted _ ,” she grits out, dark blush burning itself into her cheeks and the tips of her ears. “It’s nothing— nothing like  _ that, _ ” and Gideon hears an odd quaver to her voice, and files that away to be examined at a later, more well rested time. Preferably when she doesn’t have a half naked necromancer in bed with her to muddle things up. “I want…” Harrow spreads her hands apart helplessly. “I don’t have anything on me that could  _ hurt you,  _ Griddle.”  _ Except me _ goes unspoken.

After a moment of tense silence, Harrow sets her shoulders as if she’s about to walk into a war zone, and then lays down on the bed. She looks so small without the layers of black cloth, without the jagged bits of bone in her ears and at her wrists. Vulnerable. And that almost sets Gideon off again, because _vulnerable _and _Harrowhark _are two concepts that do not sit well together. She’s watching Gideon with dark eyes as if she’s trying to understand something, or maybe as if she’s trying to communicate something. 

And then, when their eyes are locked and Harrow  _ must  _ be sure that Gideon is watching her, Harrow’s eyelids drift down. 

Gideon scoots up so her back is against the headboard (the  _ wooden  _ headboard, because the Mithraeum is fancy as fuck) and pulls her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on her arms, crossed over her knees, and watches Harrow. 

It’s weird seeing Harrow like this. Partially because Harrowhark sleeps approximately one seventh the amount of a normal human person, and partially because Gideon has so rarely been  _ allowed _ to see Harrow in a state of vulnerability like this. (This was largely because, for most of their lives, such a display of vulnerability would’ve ended with Gideon pinning her entire robe to the bed around her, or maybe just painting a dick on her forehead). And maybe never quite like  _ this  _ — spread out, with her skinny little neck stretched across the pillow. Before, she’s always slept bunched up, curled in on herself as if seeking protection even in sleep. 

Harrow is very blatantly Not Sleeping. Still, it’s—  _ kind _ of her to try. Harrowhark has probably never comforted another human being in her entire life, Gideon is pretty sure. The attempt is clumsy, but so is Gideon, and so is this entire weird thing that’s unfurled between them. 

After a second, Gideon extends one arm so that one hand is curled on the pillow next to Harrow’s head, palm facing upward. Harrow’s eyes flutter for a second, and then her fingers slowly come to rest in Gideon’s hand. Tentatively, Harrow scrapes her blunt fingernails over the calloused skin of Gideon’s palm. Gideon focuses on the sensation, and lets everything else fade into the background. 

***

Gideon wakes and doesn’t remember falling asleep. When she looks down, she sees Harrow’s hand, two fingers curled against Gideon’s larger palm. 


End file.
